


A Fine Institution

by Mercury_1998



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-14 14:14:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury_1998/pseuds/Mercury_1998
Summary: Genevieve Evangeline Rosier, daughter of death eater Evan Rosier and held accountable for his crimes, finds herself bound to the fate of the Light. But dark times are ahead and forced to return to the country she fled, she must repay her debt to Albus Dumbledore, leader of the Light, and find her own place in the war already stirring. Confronted with her past and her future, can Genevieve face all those she left behind? Or will she fall like those in her family before her?





	1. Prologue - Judge, Jury, Executioner

 

The Wizengamot sat proudly, fiercely under the glowing light of the blue flames. Rows upon rows of benches, rising in level were filled by around 200 witches and wizards, cloaked in plum-purple robes looked down on the figure bound in the centre. The court curved, like an amphitheatre, around a chair, it arms wrapped with chains, awaiting the performance to come. A door at the far corner of the room creaked open slowly and out emerged a young girl, arms held fast in the dark skeletal hands of two dementors. Slowly but surely, the dark-haired girl was dragged to the chair. Clad only in a nightgown, blood mingled with tears and the resultant mess streaked across her face as she was forced into the chair. She flinched as a black cloak trailed over her pale arms and the dementors finally left the room. Her accidental magic flared and the green flames flickered, briefly casting darkness and making many of audience whisper worriedly.

“Bind her!” The man in the centre of the rows, sat at a large podium, called down. Another rose from the shadows around the floor, greying hair wild, dark eyes fierce. The girl cried out again in fear, visibly reeling from the man’s sudden appearance as he conjured thick, heavy chains, binding the girl. The chains themselves glowed briefly with runes as the child’s magic was dampened.

“Genevieve Evangeline Rosier, Heir Apparent of the Rosier family, daughter of known Death Eater, Evan Rosier.” The man that spoke had short grey hair with a neat parting and a narrow toothbrush moustache. Under the blue light, his face took on the appearance of a skull. “You have been brought before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you-”

A tall, white-bearded wizard stood and immediately the witches and wizards sat, turned to face him. “And what, may I ask Bartemius, does the defendant stand accused of, that she has been brought, a child, before the full Council of Magical Law and the Wizengamot, to face such judgement?”

A few witches and wizards nodded, concerned. The child shrunk further into the chair.

The original speaker’s face tightened into a heavy scowl. “As stated before, Genevieve Rosier is the daughter of now deceased Evan Rosier, known Death Eater. She stands accused of being a co-conspirator in his crimes and an accessory in his previous escape.”

Shocked murmurs spread throughout the room and all faces turned back to look at the little girl crying in chains.

“Genevieve Rosier is ten years old. She played no part in her father’s activities under Voldemort. She is innocent.”

The wizard, seeing he was rapidly losing control of the crowd, who by now, was almost completely persuaded to Dumbledore’s point of view. Calling for silence, he surged to regain their allegiance. “I do not speak of current crimes, Dumbledore, but of ones she may yet commit.”

“I was not aware we were in the habit of arresting people for crimes before they have committed them, Bartemius.”

The crowd tittered. Bartemius Crouch Sr flushed an ugly puce.

“If that child is released, He Who Must Not Be Named will recruit her to his ranks, as he had her father before her. We must protect ourselves-”

“What threat can this child pose? Our first duty is in the protection of this child-”

Spit flew from Crouch’s mouth as he slammed his fist on the podium. “I will not let a future Death Eater leave this room free.You saw her power, you heard the transcript of her capture. She is yet untrained. We must protect ourselves-”

“Yes, I quite agree, Bartemius. This child is, as of yet, untrained and now, has no solid ties of allegiance to either side in this war” Dumbledore smoothly interrupted, an amiable smile making its way easily onto his previously stern face. 

Crouch straightened in his seat, sniffing. “What do you suggest Dumbledore?”

“We should foster the girl with a prominent Light family. Secure her as a member of the Light by betrothing her to a boy from a Light family. Thus she shall grow up in a safe, happy environment that supports the Light, and fights against any Darkness that remains in her. A marriage when she is older will further bind her to us and finally convert the Rosier name to the Light. I believe the Weasley family would be a suitable choice. They have a son of similar age.”

Though a few of the witches and wizards looked outraged at a child of the noble Rosier family being betrothed to one such as the Weasley clan, despite their pureblood status, the majority were pleased with this proposal. Dumbledore turned to a nervous looking man, seated next to him.

“Do you consent to this, Weasley?” Crouch asked, voice derisive.

“My wife and I have discussed it, and... Yes. If Dumbledore thinks this necessary, then we consent to raise the girl and her betrothal to our Bill.”

Crouch was forced to agree with the decision being firmly stolen from his grasp. Jaw clenched, he nodded stiffly. 

“Genevieve Rosier, the Wizengamot decrees you be fostered to the Weasley family until you reach the age of seventeen. You will also be required to take an Unbreakable Vow betrothing you to William Arthur Weasley, to marry after you turn of age. Dumbledore, if you would.”

The elder wizard nodded thoughtfully, satisfied and with a wave of his hand, the chains binding the girl vanished. She remained shrunken where she was curled, the air around her distorting like heat as her magic swarmed, free once more. Both wizards descended to join her on the main floor, though the girl stayed frozen. Her fearful gaze remained on the shadows, where the wizard who had bound her stood guard.

“My dear, if you would come here.”

A sheen of calm seemed to overcome the girl and with an unhurried purpose in her movements, she hopped lightly from the large chair on which she had just been cowering in and moved to meet the two wizards.

“Hold my hand please.”

The scene was silent as the Rosier girl took the wizened hand of the esteemed Albus Dumbledore and they knelt together. Bartemius Crouch stood over the pair, his wand at the ready and pressed to their joining.

“Will you, Genevieve Rosier, agree to accept Molly and Arthur Weasley as your foster parents, to be a part of the Weasley family, and as such, be under their responsibility until you turn of age?”

“I will,” the girl said clearly, her eyes far away, staring blankly like she was sleepwalking. A firey band made a ring around their clasped hands.

“And will you, Genevieve Rosier, agree to a betrothal between yourself and William Arthur Weasley, to whom you will marry after you have turned of age?”

“I will.”

A second chain joined the first, weaving itself around it. Three pairs of eyes reflected the brightness cast.

“And will you, Genevieve Rosier, agree to never join Lord Voldemort or support his cause, and should it prove necessary, actively work against his efforts?”

“I will.” As the girl spoke, her voice wavered and an anxiousness seemed to flash in her eyes like she was regaining consciousness.

A third and final band of flame sealed itself over the two hands. The Vow was made.

Genevieve Rosier was a child, but her fate was decided.


	2. An Old Man Never Forgets A Life Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debts are called in and terms are set. Genevieve Rosier is stuck in muggle suburbia and meets the Boy Who Lived.

 

The streets of Diagon Alley were almost empty under the summer shower, lacking their usual noise and bustle. Colours seemed to blur under the heavy downpour, as the floating lanterns that lit the street glowed through the sheen of rain. In the middle of it all, a witch walked alone, in spite of the weather. The soft  _ pit-pat _ of rain accompanied the  _ clack-clack  _ of her heels as she walked, though perhaps walking was too loose a term for the purpose behind her motion. The set face of resolution made her distinct as the rest of the world blurred. The rain avoided her, droplets changing directory like they were slipping down the canopy of an invisible umbrella. 

Thick, dark braids swung around a dark face, beating a rhythm against the woman’s back as she quick-stepped over a puddle. Her face was still, a habitual sneer firmly in place. 

Eyes hooded and heavy, her gaze was fixed forward, as a marksman determining a target. Her colouring inherited from her mother, ebon hair and mahogany skin, though her features were all her father, prominent to the point of over-exaggeration. A thin, wide mouth pulled down at the edges, combined with a distinctly arched nose and stubborn brow. 

Robes of elegant green silk swung around stocking-clad ankles, trimmed in gold. Gold also decorated her fingers, ears, and the complex tangle of her braids. She fingered her rings as I walked, one ring stood out amongst the others. Rose gold, decorated with a ruby embossed with a rose, signifying title. The Rosier family was nothing, if not possessed of taste.

The witch stepped off the main street, sneering at the unfortunate man that bumped into her. Quickly, with a swirl of an emerald cloak, Genevieve Evangeline Rosier swept off to the side, entering the slightly rundown, certainly ancient establishment that went by the name of The Leaky Cauldron. With a flick of her wand, appearance immaculate, and with a satisfied nod, the witch passed the barman and gracefully side-stepped the drunks to enter the private room to the side.

“Ah, Miss Rosier. I have been waiting for you.”

The young woman rolled her eyes, and barely refrained from a sneer.

“Had it been my decision, I would not be here at all, Headmaster. I am a woman of limited time. Why did you ask for me to meet you here?” As she spoke she allowed her lip to curl slightly, taking in what she thought very loosely defined decorations.

“I am sorry to have taken you from your travels. Please, take a seat.”

Tall and thin; a white-bearded eccentric man. Albus Dumbledore needed few descriptors, Genevieve found. Complete and utter twat worked for her. She stared, bored, unwavering, into twinkling blue eyes.

“I do not plan on staying long, Headmaster. If we could get to the point?”

Even in the face of open displeasure, Dumbledore maintained his cheerful calm. It would be admirable if it wasn’t so bloody infuriating. Dark fingers drummed on the table, Genevieve’s only tell. 

“Miss Rosier, I’ve decided it is time for me to call in that favour.”

Displeasure turned to open resentment. The witch flashed brilliant white teeth as she snarled, “You’ve waited twelve years, why now?”

The older wizard ignored her. “You have no doubt heard of the escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban?”

Genevieve sneered at him. “Am I to repay my debt in that then? The recapture of an escaped criminal? How very droll.”

“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. “I’m sure you must be looking for residence now you are back in England.”

“Back by your will. Though this is relevant how?”

“I would merely like to make a suggestion.”

Disdainfully inspecting the furnishings, she quickly turned with raised brows. “Indeed? That is very charitable after being the reason for me having to come back to this cursed country in the first place.”

“Other duties would have brought you back before long.”

Icy rage flooded her, and she glared at her old headmaster. “Then you are aware that I already have a residence waiting for me.”

At this point, the door opened as the barman bustled in with a tray of tea.

“Ah, thank you, Tom,” said Dumbledore, magically pouring himself a cup. “Tea, my dear?”

When the dark-haired witch merely glowered in reply, he continued as before, sipping delicately. “To my understanding, you seek to avoid that particular duty for as long as possible.”

“I’m sure you understand little about much of my situation,” Genevieve snarled. The indignity! To be subjected to this fool’s philosophies.

“Few understand the complex nature of love. Much less, those who find themselves under its sway. Regardless, I have a house available for your use, for the immediate and long-term future, should you require it.”

“And this is all completely free of strings attached? What does this have to do with Sirius Black?”

“The house I am speaking of is in a muggle neighbourhood in Surrey.”

Her look of reluctant interest turned quickly to incredulity. “You want me to live in a muggle neighbourhood? In what way could this possibly benefit you?”

“Because, Miss Rosier, of the identity of one of your neighbours.”

“You don’t need to taunt me, Headmaster. Say what you must and have done with it.” Who could possibly be so important?

“I hesitate only because of the need for secrecy in these matters. You must accept and swear to keep the identity of this person, and their whereabouts, as well as your own, secret. And this you must swear before I can tell you any more.”

Genevieve scowled heavily. “You have kept me tethered with this leash since I was ten years old. Do not humiliate me by pretending I have any choice but to accept and meet your demands. I am bound as you had me bound.”

Dumbledore stood. “Very well. Your new address is 7 Privet Drive, Little Whinging and your new neighbour is Harry Potter. I require you to watch over him and protect him as necessary. However, he cannot be aware of your place in our world.”

Things suddenly made sense to the witch. The greatest punishment Dumbledore could inflict. To send her into the suburban centre of muggledom to watch over the wayward Boy Who Lived. The Prophet would have a field day. If any of her father’s old cohorts caught her there, she would be slaughtered in her bed. If any of Dumbledore and the Light’s minions found her stalking the boy, she would be lynched in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

“You want me to become a muggle for the indefinite future while spying on a teenage boy three months of a year and doing presumably nothing else for the rest?” Genevieve gave a dark laugh. “I am at your service, it seems. Congratulations, Dumbledore. You have certainly had the last laugh here.”

“My dear girl,” Dumbledore spoke sadly. “I do not seek to torment you as you believe. You may, of course, continue your work, though discreetly.”

“If there is nothing else?” Standing straight, I turned away.

“No.”

“Then good afternoon.”

 

~*~

 

“So this is it.”

The most immediate word that came to Genevieve’s mind was  _ quaint _ . The next five were  _ what the ever living fuck. _ The house was not small, but by no means large. In fact, it could be argued as a perfect size given the fact it seemed to be a replica of every other house that lined Privet Drive. It even had a little garden out the front, the flowers arranged neatly and formulaic, all perfectly weeded and pruned.

It was so very muggle. A sneer made its way across Genevieve’s face.

“Father is rolling in his grave,” she announced bitterly, taking a resolute step over the small garden wall. The door was pastel green. Pastel green trimmed with ivory. With a noise of disgust and a quick glance at the empty street behind her, the witch placed a hand on the wood and watched as a sombre blue rushed out to replace the green. With the scant light of the setting sun behind her, she made her way into the house and sighed. Everything was so…  _ muggle _ .

A thin hallway leading to some stairs, on either side, a kitchen and a living room. Upstairs, no doubt, one would find a bedroom, bathroom and maybe an office.

Reaching for her wand, Genevieve began preparing the wards she would need and some she would not. Just because she had sworn to Dumbledore she would not reveal her magic, she wasn’t going to serve herself up on a platter to any nosy wizard passing through. First, the blood seal, for protection of the Rosier family magic. Then the burning of herbs in every room. Sage for protection, mugwort to defend against mind magics, rosemary for health and lemon to allow magic to flow. This was quickly followed by all the warding spells and runes from the Rosier grimoire remembered from her lessons. By the time she was done, it was well into the night and Genevieve felt almost depleted of her magic.

The night sky was empty of stars for once, as she summoned the light from the street lamps. The witch sat on her new front lawn, grimoire open in front of her. There was one last spell that would allow Genevieve to monitor the entire street; any magic performed and any magical being that trespassed upon it. Concentrating, she pushed at the walls of her mind. Sweat beaded at her hairline, and the witch bit into her lip, straining against the power. The effort weighed on her, her back bowing under the labour. Suddenly, it gave, and Genevieve found herself falling sideways in exhaustion. Flickering at the corner of her vision was a bright fire of magic. Looking towards it, to the house across the road, at the upstairs window where the Boy Who Lived slept on, Genevieve examined the house. Through the sheen of her own magic, she could see the withered, almost decaying threads of blood magic that wrapped around 4 Privet Drive. Beyond that, no other warding could be seen. Genevieve gaped in disbelief. Leaving the Boy Who Lived so vulnerable, when rumour in certain circles said the Dark Lord was not as dead as most of the wizarding world believed. There wasn’t even any privacy ward on the house, let alone the standard protection wards. Pushing what remained of her magic, fueled by her incredulity and rage at Dumbledore, Genevieve slowly cast the same wards she had given her own house. Harry Potter slept on.

Wearily, the witch stood and staggered back into her house.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

 

~*~

 

Genevieve woke up late. And hungry.

Moving downstairs slowly, still exhausted and magically drained after the night before, she came to the realisation she had no food. A persistent tapping came from the window. Upon opening the window, the owl dropped two letters. One, more drivel from Dumbledore. That would make nice tinder, she thought as she crumpled it in her fist. The note attached simply read:

_ You have been invited to tea at 5 Privet Drive, at 11 o’clock. _

The clock read 10:50 am. Genevieve cursed Dumbledore.

When she was dressed in appropriate muggle attire, most reluctantly, Genevieve walked to the door with hairbrushes, a toothbrush and toothpaste trailing after her. Slamming the door behind her with a wave, she strode purposefully to the house next door. Just as she was about to knock, the disgusting pastel pink door opened to a rather harried looking old woman with flyaway grey hair cocooned in shawls. Genevieve took in her tartan slippers and baggy silk stockings before being arrested by a pair of milky brown eyes.

“You’re late,” was her greeting, followed by an impatient beckoning motion. Barely holding back a sneer, Genevieve followed, taking pains to avoid the more ghastly furniture, and the various cats waiting to trip her up.

“I do not believe we are acquainted?”

“No, of course not. My name is Arabella Figg, though everyone just calls me Mrs Figg. Albus told me I would have a new neighbour, but not who you would be.”

Reluctantly, Genevieve remembered her lessons and dipped into as minimal curtsey as courtesy would allow. “Genevieve Rosier.”

Mrs Figg looked surprised before her expression turned wary. “I’m surprised at Albus, sending one of your lot.”

“One of my lot, you say? As far as I am aware, my family is dead, the Dark Lord is vanquished, and you can check my flesh yourself for a Dark Mark, for you will not find one. So to whom exactly are you referring?”

The woman looked justifiably chastened, but Genevieve continued.

“Regardless, I see no point in my staying here if another witch is already present-”

“Oh no, Albus was right to send you here. You see, I’m a squib.”

Genevieve closed her eyes. Dumbledore was surely laughing somewhere. She silently cursed her father for what he had left her to deal with.

Mrs Figg gave a nervous chuckle, “Tea?” before bustling off, leaving Genevieve to inspect the room.

She was in the middle of deciding which armchair was the least abominable to sit on when a quiet voice pulled her from her derision.

“You’re not Mrs Figg.”

Turning slowly, her hand resting indiscernibly on her wand, the dark haired witch cast her heavy-lidded gaze on the intruder. 

It was a boy, small and thin, topped with a mess of unruly black curls. The boy and the woman stared at each other, Genevieve cataloguing as she took him in. His trousers were faded and she knew from a glance the holes in the knees were not part of the original design. His shirt, equally in disrepair, as well as being more than three sizes too big, made the boy appear even thinner than he already was. Round glasses perched on his nose and a thin, lightning-shaped scar peaked out from under his hair. So this was the boy she had to keep an eye on. Maybe more than one, she thought grimly, seeing a fading bruise poking out from his baggy sleeve.

He straightened himself up and gave her a suspicious look. “Mrs Figg doesn’t have any family, so who are you?”

Genevieve raised her brows, squashing the urge to smirk in amusement. “Are you under the impression that I am in any way obliged to answer your, frankly quite rude, question? In fact, I find it highly suspicious, a teenage boy walking in when, as you say,  _ Arabella _ ,” she stresses the first name, the boy flinches, “has no family.”

“Uh,” he started hesitantly, a dull flush spreading across his tanned skin. He settled on avoiding eye contact and scuffing the gaudy carpet with his trainers. “It’s Dudley’s, my cousin’s birthday, so my aunt and uncle told me to stay with Mrs Figg while they went to the beach."

“Indeed?” Genevieve asked, surprised. She hummed to herself thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

“Twelve, I’m thirteen next month.”

“Old enough to stay home alone surely.”

“My aunt and uncle don’t like leaving me in the house alone. They think I’ll break things.”

“Would you?”

“Not on purpose.”

Genevieve hummed again but was distracted by Mrs Figg as she entered with a tray of tea. She stopped upon seeing the boy.

“I forgot you were coming over today,” Mrs Figg mumbled before snapping her fingers. “It’s too nice a day to be wasting it with an old lady, Harry, you can go help Jenny sort out her new house.”

Genevieve scowled and Harry looked surprised but the old woman ignored any protest, shooing them out the door and slamming it shut. The young woman and boy stood still in the doorway, eying each other. Cautiously, the boy asked, “Are you Mrs Figg’s daughter?”

“No,” she replied shortly, “I’m your new neighbour and should you call me Jenny you will quickly find yourself having an enemy for a neighbour. My name is Genevieve.”

The boy looked even more surprised. “Uh, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you?”

“A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Genevieve gave a sigh, gesturing for him to follow her to the house. When the boy stayed where he was, she turned back impatiently. “Well? Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

 

~*~

 

Having magically unpacked most of the things in the night, there was little for Harry to help with in the end. Genevieve side-eyed the boy and his unusual smallness. Nodding to herself, she strode into the kitchen and set about making lunch. Calling out over her shoulder, she asked him, “You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How do you feel about meatballs?”

“You don’t have to-”

“As I see it, I am eating, your family is out, and it is the height of bad manners to refuse a meal from a new acquaintance. Mer-God knows you’re too skinny as it is.”

“They’re not.”

She turned at the quiet voice to see Harry looking fierce, fists clenched. “What?”

“They’re not my family. I have to live there.”

Genevieve huffed a laugh.”I know the feeling.”

An awkward quiet hovered between them, well into the meal. Sitting across from each other at the small dining room table, both boy and woman avoided each other's eyes. When she finished her own meatballs, she spooned more onto Harry’s plate. 

Settling back to watch him dig in, Genevieve considered her words carefully.

“Say, why don’t you come around tomorrow?”

He looked up, mouth open. A piece of meatball half-chewed fell out and Genevieve swallowed her disgust as Harry flushed and scrambled to close his mouth. 

“What?”

“Pardon.”

“What?”

“You should say pardon, not what.” And this boy was the heir to the Potter family, this was an atrocity. “And for that reason, I am going to insist on your continuing visits here. You’d think you were raised on the streets, scoffing down your food like that.”

Anger mixed with the boy’s confusion now. “What?”

“Again with the what’s. You are not a chav, don’t start acting like one. I need help redecorating this… monstrosity you people call interior design. In return for your labour, you will be paid and fed. Perhaps, as we work you will pick up some better habits. Now would you like some more meatballs or are you full?”

He stared at her, utterly baffled by the most forthright person he had ever met. In his shock, he stuttered. “I’m f-fine, thanks.”

“Thank  _ you _ ,” she chastised under her breath as she took the plates, sweeping off to the sink. Internally moaning at the restrictions on her ability to use magic for such menial tasks, Genevieve set about filling the sink with hot soapy water. Silently, Harry joined the woman, just as quietly taking the tea towel to dry those pots she washed. She gifted the boy with a small but genuine smile. He was quick to catch on.

“Thank you, Harry.”


	3. Genevieve Rosier & The Heartbreak Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve and Harry form an alliance, Harry runs away, and Dumbledore is comprehensively told off.

 

The next few days passed quickly and work began with equal haste. Genevieve determined they should proceed one room at a time, starting with the living room. A slightly awkward but nonetheless productive trip was made to pick up paint and other needed materials. Genevieve thought she was rather successful at hiding her inexperience at muggle renovation methods. Harry’s bafflement still seemed to mostly revolve around the fact that an adult was paying attention to him, undivided attention, and there was yet to be any negative consequence, or otherwise significant result other than his table manners improving. He turned down the pay Genevieve offered.

“Dudley will just steal it anyway,” Genevieve heard him mutter under his breath as they strained to squeeze the new sofa through the front door. That night before she sent him home she served him a triple helping of spaghetti.

She kept an eye on Harry as promised, every night monitoring her wards on both their houses and the street they shared. Occasionally, a magical presence seemed to brush the boundary wards but never entering. Perhaps it was a secondary defence Dumbledore had put in. It definitely wasn’t quite a wizard but at the same time…

Increasingly, Genevieve became rather attached to the twelve-year-old wizard. He was quiet, but not shy, he would respond fine enough to any conversation attempts, though they were still rather few given Genevieve was not yet completely caught up on muggle life. Although together they had discovered the wonder of muggle rock. Genevieve was enamoured by a man called David Bowie while Harry seemed to prefer a band called Oasis. A contentment would be found in the house of 7 Privet Drive, music soft from the radio as walls were painted and furniture removed. The Dursleys were apparently none the wiser, Harry still completing his chores sufficiently, largely thanks to Saffy, the Rosier family house elf, unknown to him. Harry himself seemed to have found a reprieve from his normal summer torture, enjoying the time spent with Genevieve, even beginning to warm to her austere and often prickly demeanour. This relief lasted for a few weeks until news of a certain dreaded arrival.

“Marge is coming.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry looked up from his treacle tart. “Sorry, my uncle’s sister, Aunt Marge, she’s coming to stay.” He looked down again. “I probably won’t be able to come over and help finish the bathroom.”

“I see,” Genevieve hummed a little, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Do you enjoy helping me, Harry?”

“Yes!” Harry gaped, quickly closed his mouth and swallowing, when Genevieve’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “I do, honest.”

“Then I should be able to arrange something, I can be quite persuasive you know-”

“No!” Harry shouted across the table, almost jumping out of his seat. “I’m- sorry for interrupting you but you can’t do that.”

“And why _can’t_ I?”

“As soon as my aunt and uncle find out I’m enjoying myself somewhere instead of being miserable they won’t let me come anymore, and no amount of persuasion would work.”

Genevieve slowly put down her knife and fork and looked deep into Harry’s eyes. “Your family- Forgive me, the people you live with, they don’t treat you very well?”

Though framed as a question it was also a statement. Harry stilled, looking up. His green eyes swam with wariness and, looking further, fear.

“You are small for a boy your age, obviously so. Your clothes are old, second-hand and of poor quality. There is no love lost between you and them, you dislike them, I assume they feel the same way.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “I saw that bruise on your arm earlier, I assume it isn’t the only one.”

The boy trembled and his magic reacted, the lights flickering. Genevieve ignored it, despite the heady feeling cloying at her senses.

“You will face no judgement here, Harry. Nor pity, while not so unfortunate as you as the people I was placed with were a good family that loved me well, I know what it is to have the choice taken away from you, to be forced to live somewhere that was never your home.”

After a few beats of silence, Harry spoke, his voice whisper-soft, directed at the table rather than Genevieve. “My parents, they died when I was a baby. All I’ve ever known is the Dursleys…”

“I will not fool myself into thinking we are friends yet, Harry. I understand full well that I am.. A unique taste to say the least. However, I would like for us to be allies. If you think it wisest I avoid your aunt and uncle, I shall respect your wishes and trust your judgement on the matter, Harry. And when you deem it possible to return, my door shall be open.”

He sighed, slumping in relief. “Thank you.”

Marge arrived and Harry did not come to help Genevieve finish the bathroom. With Harry’s absence, she used magic to finish up the work there. Finished, she found little satisfaction and moped slightly making macaroni for one.

That night, Harry blew up his aunt and left 4 Privet Drive. He paused briefly outside number 7 before moving on. In short order, he would see the Grim, catch the Knight Bus, and meet the Minister for Magic.

Genevieve wondered when this bloody Aunt Marge would be leaving so she could have her assistant back.

 

~*~

 

Harry did not return to 7 Privet Drive that summer.

After a few days, impatience grew in Genevieve who found herself at a loss without the boy to direct, teach or chastise. She changed the colour of the living room walls three times before returning them to the paint that Harry and herself had picked out together. Scolding herself, she forced herself away from windows during the day, when she would look out and try and catch a glimpse of messy black curls. After a week, she came to the realisation she was moping at which point she very firmly gave herself a telling off for forming an attachment so quickly.

“Merlin, pull yourself together, Genevieve. He’s not some stray. You’re not even friends.”

Needless to say, the constant affirmations of her own ambivalence to the boy did not work. Two weeks without hair or hide from Harry, Genevieve gathered her dignity and made her way to gracing Mrs Figg’s doorstep.

“Oh, it’s you.” The batty old thing had the nerve to look disappointed. Genevieve scowled to herself as she breezed past. Like she was expecting any better company.

“Do you know when this Marge woman will be leaving the Dursley residence?”

“Don’t you know?”

Genevieve just barely managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Obviously not, that I am apparently ignorant of whatever news you may have.”

“No need to get snippy. Madam. The boy had an incident, blew up his aunt with some accidental magic. She was gone before the day was out.”

Genevieve frowned to herself.  “Then why haven’t I see Harry?”

Mrs Figg raised her brows. “Well he ran away didn’t he.”

Genevieve’s fists clenched. Through gritted teeth, she thanked Mrs Figg before retreating swiftly to her own home.

Never had the desire to send a Howler been more strong.

 

~*~

 

“You called, my dear?”

Genevieve strode through the fireplace, scowl over her face. “My charge ran away from home two weeks ago and no one saw fit to inform me. If you want me to do this, Dumbledore, I demand full disclosure. Where is he?”

The wizard sighed and sat back in his chair, reaching up to stroke his beard. “Harry is safe at the Leaky Cauldron and has been joined by the Weasley family until it is time for him to leave for school.”

Shock interrupted the witch’s pacing in front of the Headmaster’s desk as she blanched. “The Weasleys… Of course, of _fucking_ course! You manipulative old man! I knew this was some plot, some way to taunt me, pull me into your little games.”

Dumbledore started to stand, a flash of remorse on his face. “Miss Rosier, please-”

“I’ve had enough. You can keep your meddling to yourself from now on, I will have no part in it. Here, I won’t be needing this anymore.” She threw down her key on the table, sending some parchment flying off with the force. “Don’t worry about selling it, we redecorated, you’ll be able to turn it over for a decent price.”

“Miss Rosier, that is enough.” Grates sprang across the fireplace before she could floo away. Genevieve spun, snarl across her face.

“My dear girl, my actions when you were a child, though regrettable, were an attempt to save you, not to punish.”

“Yes, well you know all about saving children, don’t you? At least the people you handed me off to actually cared for me, treated me like a person.” Dumbledore closed his mouth, watching Genevieve silently as she trembled with rage. “Have you ever been back there, since you dumped him there? The heir to the Potter title, the current Lord Potter, deserted to live with muggles that treat him as a slave. If the other Families found out about this, there’d be a revolt!”

“You swore, Miss Rosier, that you would not reveal the boy’s location.”

“That boy looks nine not twelve! He’s half the size of any healthy twelve-year-old. When I met him he had bruises on his arm, his relatives have him under house arrest. Merlin’s pants, you hadn’t even warded his house, just trusting that blood protection, which is in tatters, by the way-”

“Miss Rosier, it appears you are beginning to care for the boy?”

She sniffed, shooting him a look. “I know what it is to have all choice in your own life taken from you.”

Dumbledore sighed, and for once those twinkling eyes seemed serious. “Harry must stay at his aunt and uncles. It is… regrettable, the environment he has been exposed to, however, I shall be visiting Petunia to discuss Harry’s treatment over the summer holidays. In the meantime, I must ask that you remain at Privet Drive.”

“I want to be able to contact Harry during the school year.”

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”

“Then I want to have regular updates on his well-being, physical, mental and emotional, from his head of house, if not from you.”

“That can be arranged,” the wizard nodded.

“And when you visit his… _family_ ,” Genevieve visibly hesitated over the word with a look of extreme distaste. “You will ensure that Harry is allowed to visit my own home whenever he pleases.”

“As long as he continues to call number four his home, I see no issue.”

“Then, for now, our business is concluded.”

“I am sorry, Miss Rosier, to have caused you such torment in your life.That you still demonstrate such compassion for others, I could not be prouder.”

Genevieve suddenly looked uncomfortable, the unwanted apology and accompanying compliment shaking her from her fury.

“My dear girl, your mother would be proud of you.”

The dark-haired witch turned to cast a glare so cold a frost formed over Dumbledore’s desk, before sweeping out through the green flames of the fireplace.

She had work to do.

 

~*~

 

The room was not as large as she would have liked. Certainly not as grand as the office her mother kept for her work. That had been a haven of discreet splendour and warm comfort. Many dear memories were held in that room. Her mother, hair just as dark with braids infinitely more intricate, sat at her expansive desk, spectacles on her nose as she poured over various documents and files, sending off notes with the two owls she kept for her own use. Herself, seated on the chase, curled up in a patch of sunlight, their old kneazle, Mordred across her lap. And her father striding in like the west wind, a ferocious joy to her mother’s calm, lifting her up, swinging her around the room.

This room, the second spare bedroom, was not even half the size. Extension charms aside, it would be difficult to escape this. With shelves up and a desk taking centre place, any space left was taken by the small armchair in the corner, a bittersweet reminder.

Genevieve had visited the Ministry for Magic. First, she had visited the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stopping at the Wizengamot Administration Services, before moving onto the International Magical Office of Law.  First, she registered herself as a magical barrister under the British Ministry of Magic, transferring all of her qualifications that she had earned at the Burkinabé Ministry of Magic to be able to set herself up as an independent barrister to work from home.

Sitting back in her chair, Genevieve set about writing up the documents she would need, those she might, and those she wouldn’t. She planned on setting up for any and every eventuality. When dealing with Dumbledore, contingencies were a necessity

 

~*~

  
“I’m sorry the Ministry has sanctioned _what_ at a school where over a hundred children live?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Dumbledore is hard to write. I'm hoping this is going well, the story is beginning to get into the swing of things. Sorry, no Weasleys yet but maybe in the next few chapters.


	4. Scooby Doo, Kiss My Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve begins her search for information on Sirius Black.

 

Sirius Black was a name that haunted Wizarding Britain. Genevieve could still remember the day he was caught. She had been anxious, hiding away in her room with the baby, feeling all alone in the Burrow. Late in the night, she had snuck down to the kitchen, scooping up the plate left for her on the table when she had glimpsed something in the still glowing embers of the fireplace. A piece of parchment, not yet fully burnt, the headline still visible. A picture showing a man laughing even as he was held and bound by wizards in combat robes. Aurors. Genevieve had shuddered and turned away to quietly tiptoe up to her room once more, the words “Sirius Black in Azkaban” etched into her mind.

Now, Genevieve stared down at the same man, older, less handsome and showing the result of twelve years in Azkaban. Still laughing though.

And this was the man who had broken out of Azkaban, the first person in history to do so. Everyone had reached the same conclusion. He was out to finish the job, to kill Harry. Genevieve sighed. This had Dumbledore written all over it. Force her hand, get her attached, and then, worst of all, get her intrigued. She tried to remember what she knew of Black’s case but nothing came to mind. Of course, she had still been the traumatised victim of the Light at that point. Too caught up with her own demons to pay attention to the rest of the War.

She stood, flicking her wand and sending her cloak sailing over, silver buckles fastening by themselves.

This was to satisfy her curiosity, nothing else.

 

~*~

 

The Record Room in the Ministry was nothing if not expansive. Scrolls of parchment dating back to before Merlin. Shelves that towered beyond sight, filled with information both priceless and menial. Every Ministry document contained within one room, every Daily Prophet printed, every memo written by Ministry staff, anything written inside Ministry walls instantly replicated and filed away in the ever-expanding Record Room. This was the home of the Record Keeper, a renowned entity and enigma in the Ministry.

Self-filing charms sent books flying over Genevieve’s head as she strode through the narrow shelves to the section she was looking for. War documents. The shelf itself was underwhelmingly sparse compared to neighbouring sections. No more than twenty files when the war crimes counted beyond the hundreds. But then, it was a time of terror and fear, never knowing where, when or to whom the next horror would happen. Both sides did their share of evil. Everyone in the war had things they’d rather hide, especially the Ministry. Flicking through the files, Genevieve recognised some notable names. The Lestranges, Karkaroff, Snape, Rosier. She paused, fingers tracing over the ink. There were two Rosier files. One was filed under E, the other under G.

Whispers were heard from the shelves and Genevieve felt eyes on the back of her neck. Straightening her posture and lifting her chin, she turned to stare impassively at the two clerks gaping at her back. The shelves moaned ominously, a book slamming shut nearby and the two witches blanched a milk-white, scurrying away.

“ _Death Eater_.”

Genevieve turned back to her findings once more, looking down at the file in her hands before placing it face down on the shelf once more. Her hands had been shaking.

At the bottom of the sad pile sat a folder labelled ‘Black, Sirius”. In it was one piece of parchment listing his crimes and sentence; Life, Azkaban.

That couldn’t be it. Where were the trial minutes? The witness accounts? The accused’s statement? Not even a Mind Healer’s assessment. Had there been any evidence? Any trial at all?

A tall pale figure moved past the end of the shelf where Genevieve stood.

“Excuse me?”

The figure stopped and turned before floating through the shelf to face Genevieve. The ghost was a man, stooped and tilted like an old tree at a river bed. Spectral ropes bound his hands and the eerie burn scars of ebbed across his phantom flesh, rippling in his deathly glow. Familiar with ghosts and their often morbid appearances, Genevieve stared directly into his empty eye sockets.

“You are the Record Keeper?”

The ghost sighed a rattling breath. “I am.”

“I am looking for the file on Sirius Black.”

“I require greater specification.”

“Pardon?”

“Files under Sirius Black I, Sirius Black II and Sirius Black III.”

“On Sirius Black III.”

“Birth certificate, school records, genealogical records, graduation records, Daily Prophet clippings, muggle records-”

Genevieve interrupted the ghost in his monologue, earning herself a chilling stare. “I’m looking for his case file. His arrest papers and the trial records.”

Empty eye sockets seemed to rotate down and Genevieve could feel his unseeing gaze on the file held in her hands. “You have already located Sirius Black III’s arrest warrant and sentence. Do you have need of further assistance?”

“But where are the records? The minutes? Evidence?”

“Sirius Black III, murdered twelve muggles and half-blood wizard, Peter Pettigrew with a Blasting Curse, servant of the Dark Wizard, Lord Voldemort, implicated in giving information leading to the murder of James and Lily Potter, sentenced on the 5th of November, 1981, life imprisonment in Azkaban, no trial,” the Record Keeper intoned duly.

“No trial? Surely that can’t be right. The Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, sentenced without a trial?” Genevieve shook her head fiercely, braids flying, some flickering as they passed through the Record Keeper’s ghostly form. “Impossible.”

“Sirius Black III, sentenced on the 5th of November, 1981-”

The witch held up her hands. “Yes, but how? How could the Ministry get away with locking up such a high profile pureblood wizard without any kind of trial?”

“1977, Bartemius Crouch Senior, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, gained permission from Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum, to give aurors jurisdiction to perform arrests without immediate evidence, and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to sentence criminals suspected of Death Eater activity or collusion with the Dark Wizard, Lord Voldemort to Azkaban without trial.”

Genevieve rocked back on her heels momentarily. The skull-faced man flickered into her mind’s eye before vanishing. Barty Crouch had never followed the strict tradition and processes of justice. He lacked the inclination.

“Do you have need of further assistance?”

She looked up quickly, regaining herself enough to fast track her options. “Can I take this home and all newspaper clippings, accounts, anything relevant to the arrest, sentencing or placement of Sirius Black III in Azkaban?”

 

~*~

 

If the presence of official documents regarding Black’s crimes was lacking, it was more than compensated by the sheer volume of articles on the topic, not including reader responses, wanted posters and a few puzzling pieces done by the Quibbler detailing the confusion of his identity. Genevieve spent two days trawling through the endless parchment, coming away with only one lead.

Eyewitnesses.

Sirius Black murdered twelve muggles and wizard, Peter Pettigrew with a Blasting Curse in broad daylight. One article mentioned eyewitnesses but none of these has ever been quoted or interviewed and the crime itself occurred in a muggle neighbourhood so these eyewitnesses must have been muggles. Any incident like that would require Obliviators and the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, maybe even the Office of Misinformation, and they kept their own separate records in the form of memories. If she could get access to the Memory Room, Genevieve could experience the event first hand, maybe even get another lead.

She just needed to get access somehow. But the only person she knew could help her was a no-go zone. No, she wouldn’t do that. She would just have to be a bit sneaky.

“Excuse me, I need another document actually…”

 

~*~

 

“Genevieve Rosier here to visit Arthur Weasley, Head is Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Could you please take me straight to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, have a nice day.” A badge popped out of the machine reading, _Genevieve Rosier, Visitor._ Reluctantly, she pinned it to her robe before exiting the strange, red box into the Ministry. Though she had been here only a few days before, the aura had changed now she was here to do something not exactly considered legal. Moving quickly, she cast a Notice-Me-Not charm and began the quick walk to the elevator that would take her to the Memory Room. Stepping inside, she flinched back against the wall before she could walk into Arthur Weasley himself. The charm meant he nodded to her but didn’t pay her any attention to actually realise who she was which allowed Genevieve some time to catalogue every difference since she had last seen her foster father. Still a Weasley, still ginger and freckled and built like a long stem of grass. But tired, worry lining his brow as he restlessly tapped his fingers against his portfolio occasionally glancing down at the Prophet in his hands. From her own look she saw a picture of dementors swarming the grounds of Hogwarts but what drew her attention was the smaller image in the bottom right corner of a witch stepping out of the floo flames of a fireplace. It was her. The title above reading “Rosier Heiress and Daughter of Known Death Eater Returns to Britain After Time Abroad”.

Eager to escape the weight of the guilt now pressing down on her, Genevieve almost ran out of the elevator at her floor. As soon as the door closed and Mr Weasley was out of sight, a heavy breath escaped the witch. Straightening her back, she fought an expression of serene confidence onto her face before cancelling the Notice-Me-Not and sweeping through the door of the office of Obliviators. At a desk in the centre of the room sat a rather nondescript man. So plain and ordinary was the wizard Genevieve was sure she would forget him as soon as she looked away. That was probably the intention.

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up, still scowling down at the crossword on his desk, scratching at his forehead with the quill, unwittingly smearing ink over his face.

Genevieve smiled politely even as her eyes narrowed. “I’m here to look at the memory of one of the muggle eyewitnesses to the murder of Peter Pettigrew by Sirius Black.”

The man finally looked up. His eyes were expressionless, lined with red, circled with dark bruises of exhaustion. “You got permission?”

“I have permission from the Minister to review it to check for information regarding Black’s current whereabouts and plans,” Genevieve answered smoothly, flicking a charmingly bland smile back at the man. He remained unmoved, staring at her, before sighing and leaning back in his chair.

“I need written permission from either the Head Auror, Head of Department, or Minister hisself, love. You’re word ain’t gonna cut it.”

“Of course.” With a flick of the wrist, a conjured piece of parchment appeared on the desk. Glasses pushed up on his nose, the man turned it around to examine it properly, Fudge’s signature scrawled across the bottom, forged by Genevieve’s own hand.

“Well, seems like everything’s in order. Go on through, love.”

Compared to the Record Room, the Memory Room was a cupboard. The practice of Obliviating muggles predated even the Ministry. It was only in 1666, during the Great Fire of London that the practice was made into a profession after an unfortunate incident with an escaped Welsh Green from a local magical menagerie. Even then, only after some rather alarming breeding experiments with a Nundu following the wizard Darwin’s investigations into the origins of magical creatures in 1859 did the Ministry adopt the process of collecting memories before Obliviation to assist in collecting evidence.

However, memories were like the humans they were syphoned from. Fickle and mortal. Away from the host, they went through a slow process of degradation until they too faded and the memory was lost.

Approaching the Pensieve, Genevieve found the memory already prepped.Taking a deep breath, she leant forward until a single bead from her hair grazed the surface and she was thrown into the past.

The street itself was remarkably like the one Genevieve found herself now living on. Muggle, common, and quiet but for the small cafe on the corner. She stood next to a woman with a pram, the assumed bearer of the memory. There were some others around. Three grandmas sat at the cafe drinking tea, a man sat alone, a woman jogging with her dog. A group of boys in a front garden playing some strange game with a black and white quidditch ball. Genevieve did a double take before shaking her head. With their feet?

A quiet morning on an almost empty avenue.

_Crack!_

The sound was so close to Genevieve, she staggered back through the apparition of the pram. A man, handsome face marred with rage, the very air around him warbling with the uncontrolled magic.

“Pettigrew!”

Following the directness of his gaze, Genevieve turned to the man sat at the cafe, separate from the old women, terrified and shaking. He staggered to stand, the chair falling behind him. A sneer reminiscent of her own made its way onto Black’s face as he prowled forward, eyes flashing with the famous Black madness. It was the dance of a predator with its prey, toying, unwavering.

Pettigrew, a small man, shaking in his muggle attire, threw up his wand, arms jerking so wildly Genevieve doubted he could hit Black if he tried. “You! You killed them! You killed Lily and James!”

All that came out of Black’s mouth was a snarl.

“It was you! The spy! How long have you been working for the Dark Lord, Sirius?”

The muggles were beginning to pick up on the danger imminent, even if it was unknown. The jogging woman had stopped her dog rabidly intent on the scene. The Quidditch ball was forgotten as the boys crowded the garden wall to watch the proceedings.

Black stalked forward suddenly until he had Pettigrew by the throat, the tip of his wand pressed against the skin under his eye.

“James and Lily are dead. You have to die too.”

The world seemed to shake as a blast resounded through the street. When the dust cleared Black was alone in a crater, Pettigrew nowhere to be seen. Around him was decimation. The old women strewn like dolls with bloody halos. Everyone in blast radius was hit and the effect was horrific. Genevieve heard crying and looked down. The mother crouched to protect her child, fallen and lifeless as the child wailed in her arms. She was struck with the urge to vomit. Black began to laugh.

The dark-haired wizard had stopped to pick something from the rubble before holding it up to the light. A chuckle turned into a cackle which soon developed into a full body hysterics as Black stared at the object. Genevieve hesitantly stepped closer. It was a finger. Aurors began to arrive, quickly apprehending Black and warding the scene but the damage had been done. Pettigrew was dead, and twelve muggles had been butchered in the act. An obliviator stepped over to the pram and reached in to pull out the baby. Genevieve turned away, sick to her stomach from the memory, and fell back from the Pensieve.

 

~*~

 

Why did Black kill Pettigrew? Genevieve couldn’t get her head around it.

Pettigrew, as far as she knew, wasn’t an important wizard, he hadn’t had a particularly notable part in the war other than the fact he was murdered by Sirius Black. But Black had hunted him down, him specifically. There was something she had to be missing. But what? She tapped her quill against her neck.

The problem with the memory was that it didn’t answer any of her questions, Genevieve decided. It told her what happened, sure, but she still knew nothing about Black, his motivations, why he decided now of all times to stage an escape. She thought back to his school records. He’d gone to Hogwarts, he must have had friends, housemates who would be able to tell her something. Even a teacher. Dumbledore could help but honestly, she refused to give him anything to hold over her.

Time to look for the Hogwarts graduates of 1978.

There was, as war tends to go, only so many remaining amongst the living.

Genevieve learnt Black had been a Gryffindor, in the same house and year as both James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. Other housemates included Mary MacDonald, deceased, Dorcas Meadows, deceased, Caradoc Dearborn, never found, and of course, Lily Evans, deceased.

The only other Gryffindor of their year still alive was one Remus Lupin.

The boy Remus Lupin was tall and rather ungainly in the school photo she had filched. Sandy brown hair fell into warm amber eyes, and an awkwardly charming smile shone from a tired face.

Now to find him.


End file.
